


turn to dust or turn to gold

by S_Hylor



Series: Bingo Round 1 2018 [9]
Category: Marvel Ultimates
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gladiators, M/M, Major Character Injury, Pre-Relationship, Slavery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-29
Updated: 2018-07-29
Packaged: 2019-06-18 03:51:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,488
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15477051
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/S_Hylor/pseuds/S_Hylor
Summary: Fight after fight the Captain won, always staring defiantly up at the Emperor as he stood over his defeated opponent. He dispatched them all as the Emperor saw fit, and for once, sitting in the amphitheatre Tony didn’t feel the killing blows like they were his own. All he cared was that the Captain walked away from his fights.Until the day that he didn’t.





	turn to dust or turn to gold

**Author's Note:**

> Written for my Stony Bingo square "a battle / fight / confrontation". 
> 
> Thank you to quandong_crumble for the beta work.

Antonio remembers the fights, he remembers seeing them as a young boy, seated beside Greg at their father’s feet, watching as gladiators fought and the emperor decided the fate of those that fell. He remembers his heart always being in his throat when the emperor’s hand hovered in the air, waiting for the verdict. His father had called him soft for flinching whenever the emperor turned his hand down, condemning men to death.

He might have been soft hearted, but the years had made him apt at masking it beneath rakish smiles and drowned in wine. He made a point of trying to hide how he really felt when he watched the fights, everyone was expected to watch, and without a vested interest in the gladiators like Greg had, unless he was placing money behind a particular fighter, he didn’t have the right to get upset when one lost and lost his life.

He did though. Felt the killing blows on his heart as though they were inflicted on himself. He learnt not to flinch.

Until the day he first witnessed the Captain fight. A man, they said, brought in from the border, a member of an army who had marched against the Emperor. Tony remembers lounging in his seat when he first saw him, all thick muscles, pale skin and light hair. He was like nothing Tony had ever seen before. He’d been on the edge of his seat before the end of the fight, not able to breathe until the Captain had won.

Fight after fight the Captain won, always staring defiantly up at the Emperor as he stood over his defeated opponent. He dispatched them all as the Emperor saw fit, and for once, sitting in the amphitheatre Tony didn’t feel the killing blows like they were his own. All he cared was that the Captain walked away from his fights.

Until the day that he didn’t.

 

He hadn’t suspected that the fight would go any different, hadn’t thought to be more careful with his wager, he had every faith in the Captain winning, like he had done with every other fight so far. Except it doesn’t go that way.

He sees the glint of the knife from where he’s sitting, flick out when the Captain has his opponent down. He watches as the Captain goes down, collapsing onto the sand, already staining red at his feet. He watches as the Captain struggles to get up, trying to push himself back up to his knees but not getting any further than that. Every time he tries, his left leg gives out beneath him.

His opponent is on his feet in a matter of seconds, bringing his sword down over and over again, yet somehow the Captain manages to catch every blow with his shield, somehow staying on his knees enough to defend himself. In two quick movements the Captain strikes out with his shield, catching his opponent in the groin, then as he hunches over, the Captain strikes out again, this time up, catching his opponent under the chin, wrenching the sword out of his grip.

They both tumble to the ground in fray and Tony can’t see what is happening from where he sits, on the edge of his seat, chewing on his knuckles with nerves.

Then it’s all over, both on them sprawled on the ground. Tony has to squint against the sun reflecting off of the sand, his heart in his throat, terrified of what he might see.

The Captain is there, lying curled in his side, shield still clutched in one hand, pulled in close to cover his chest and stomach. His opponent is lying next to him, his own sword embedded in his stomach, angled so it had slid up into the rib cage.

Hush falls over the amphitheatre, everyone waiting with bated breath to see if either of the fighters is going to stand up. Tony can’t even bring himself to breathe, his pulse pounding louder and louder in his ears. He’s starting to feel dizzy, his lungs aching, when there is movement from the middle of the field. A cheer goes up around the amphitheatre.

The Captain slowly uncurls himself, rolling onto his front and pushing himself back up to his knees. When he tries to go further than that his left leg gives out under him and he collapses back to the sand, having to catch himself on both hands.

The cheering dies down, some petering out into cries of dismay, others to jeers. Tony still can barely breathe, each breath short and sharp and his head is starting to ache from a mixture of the heat and the lack of air.

“That is the end of him, no doubt.” Greg observes beside him, taking a dispassionate sip of his wine. “They rarely come back from injuries like that.”

Tony supposes that his brother would know, having his own stable of fighters, but he hopes that he’s wrong. He tries to look at both Greg and the Captain at the same time, unable to tear his eyes off of the centre of the arena. “What will happen to him?”

From the corner of his eye he sees Greg give him a condescending look, more like their father than he’d ever like to be told. “If he doesn’t recover, and the wound doesn’t turn septic, then I would assume he’ll go to the auction block. Might make a half decent slave out of him. Possibly use him to train new fighters.”

From the edge of the amphitheatre several slave run out into the arena. Two grab the body of the Captain’s opponent by the feet, dragging it back to one of the tunnels. The other two collect the Captain up under the arms, half supporting him, half dragging him out of the amphitheatre.

Tony watches as the cart comes out to spread new sand out over the blood stains. He still feels dizzy. His mind plays images of the Captain’s body being dumped with all the other dead. Of him shackled and chained at the auction block, of someone buying him, taking him who knows where, where Tony will never see him again. He can’t imagine it.

He couldn’t bear it.

 

///

 

He watches the fights, because he’s expected to, but it isn’t the same now that the Captain isn’t there. He counts back the fights he’d seen and it makes his heart ache when he realises that it was the fourth fight he’d won. 

One more and he would have won his freedom and Tony would have lost any chance of seeing him again regardless. He doesn’t imagine a northerner like that would have wanted to stay around here, when he could have gone home. 

He doesn’t see any sign of the Captain at fights. Nor does he see him at the auction blocks in the coming weeks. He worries that maybe there had been a private sale, but he hears nothing of it on the grapevine, which he pays special attention to. 

It’s nearly three weeks before he sees the Captain again. He’d gotten to the point of thinking he’d never see him again, had spent far too much money collecting what he could that had belonged to the Captain, his shield and helmet, though he’d missed out on several pieces of his armour. It wasn’t enough to just have memorabilia though, he fretted constantly, worrying that something awful had happened to the Captain, that he might have died from his wounds, or been put down like a lame beast. He didn’t think that would happen, but he didn’t know for sure it hadn’t until he sees the Captain standing on a platform, naked except for the bandage and splint on his left leg. 

For a moment he can’t breathe, can barely believe his eyes, that the Captain is standing right there, head up, eyes cast defiantly over the heads of the crowd gathered at the auction. When he gets closer, Tony can see there are a set of crutches off to the side of the platform, and read the placard detailing the Captain’s injuries that hangs around his neck, the likelihood that he’ll be lame for the rest of his life. It doesn’t seem to stop people from moving closer though. Tony can pick out faces of men he knows have their own fighters, Greg amongst them. He knows when the bidding starts he has little chance of winning. 

Then the Captain dips his chin slightly, gaze scanning out over the crowd, eyes narrowed in a glare. His eyes meet Tony’s for a moment, filled with cold indifference that nearly entirely masks the fear in behind that gaze, but Tony can see it in the way his jaw is clenched, the way his throat bobs every time he swallows, and he can’t imagine losing. 

He’d sink his entire fortune into buying the Captain if need be. 

 


End file.
